


The Game Goes On -- A Pear Shaped Sequel

by Chuffed4angst



Series: Pear Shaped Games [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Belly Kink, Chubby Draco, Fat Character, Fat Shaming, Feeding, Harry is a sadistic bastard, Humiliation, M/M, Master/Slave, Post-War, Slavery, Squicks and Triggers Galore, Weight Gain, fat Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuffed4angst/pseuds/Chuffed4angst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry didn’t like to think he was evil, per se.  He knew he’d developed a bit of a dark side.  But that was alright because the world had its dark corners, didn’t it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Two Minds -- Bored Games

**Author's Note:**

> I never intend to apologise so I usually refrain from explaining -- there is such a fine line between explaining and excusing. Then again, like the Harry in this one, I don’t like to think I’m some sort of monster. (Of course I am a monster; I just don’t like to think it). So I will at least give fair warning. Like me, this Harry gets bored and is driven to invent a series of situations in which he imposes weight gain and humiliation on slave-Draco. Any plot is just an excuse for more kink. I think it’s hot, but I would never claim that it's nice. In fact it’s downright abusive and poor Draco should go running to an abused slave’s shelter. But he can’t. Because he’s a slave and I'm the author. Lucky for him, he's a figment of my monsterous imagination. No living beings were harmed in the production of this big fat twisted fic. All acts were performed by fictional actors. Do not try at home without adult supervision. Of course, if you try it at home with adult supervision, remember to add your own warning for voyeurism.

Harry didn’t like to think he was evil, _per se_. He knew he’d developed a dark side. But that was alright because the world had its dark corners, didn’t it? He took comfort thinking he hadn’t changed entirely. He gave to charities at Yule, enjoyed a laugh, and all that. He would never kick a puppy or steal candy from a baby. He was a pretty good bloke. And yet… there was a sharp divide between Sunny Harry and Shady Harry. His compassionate and sadistic natures thrilled in walking that line as if it were a tightrope. Most days, he kept his balance. He held his balance for days and weeks at a time until he almost forgot he should make the effort.

But, really, the rope was terribly high and narrow. And sometimes he fell.

…

 

The Game was a perfect example. Harry had honestly taken Malfoy in to save him from certain torture by the hoards who had clamored to buy him.  Indeed, he had never inflicted the direct physical pain nor required the grueling physical labor recommended by the Ministry Compliance Commission.  But he had been no angel.  Harry would freely admit he’d taken pleasure from inflicting more subtle indignities.  Breaking Malfoy at the beginning had been delicious, no matter how civilized Harry had been about it.  He’d purposely provoked Malfoy more than a few times, knowing it would trigger the Ministry Compliance Collar to do its worst.  If pushed,  he might also admit he’d recently found unexpected pleasure in the soft, sexy curves and weight of Malfoy’s swelling form.

He would be loathe to admit, however, that he had systematically tempted and manipulated his pet with sex and food and magic so that Malfoy would inflict his own breaking. Harry had set up the circumstances and opportunities, and let Malfoy’s own actions strip away his independent identity layer by layer.  He’d set it up so that Malfoy chose the very pleasures that led to his own humiliation and, ultimately, willingly prostrated his succulent self before Harry as his one and only Master.   He set up Malfoy like a path of dominos so that, at his Master's slightest prompting, the subservient pet greedily buried his former self under layer upon layer of succulent flesh. Harry thrilled to watch Malfoy literally stuff himself with endless edible and sexual pleasure. Every time Malfoy dove deeper into his destiny, Harry felt a rush of power because he had set up Malfoy’s self-destruction.

This dark pleasure was Harry’s secret.  He love/hated it.  Strike that.  He loved everything about the Game and would never give it up.  In his few and fleeting moments of unguarded reflection, he hated _himself_ for being the sort of bloke to love the Game.

Harry had been so very pleased by his pet’s crashing birthday defeat that he hadn’t wanted -- needed -- to play again for several months. It had been lovely, really, to ride that long rush of victory.  Draco’s mortification about his runaway eating had thrilled Harry at every meal.  His continued shame of his ever enlarging body had delighted Harry in bed, in the shower, at every touch.  For a while, he’d thought it might be enough to stop him from playing with his prey like some feral cat.


	2. ROUND TWO -- The Name Game

He didn’t plan on toying with Malfoy again.  Truly.  It just _happened_.

Harry woke one morning in early October curled around the succulent globes of his Pet’s arse.  As usual, he wrapped his arm possessively over Malfoy’s girth and tucked his hand into the warm fold between Malfoy's belly and thigh.  The more miserable Malfoy seemed to be about his growing body, the more Harry liked playing with Malfoy’s fat.  He couldn't help humming in Malfoy's ear as he ran his hand around the full bounds of Malfoy’s belly,  up to the soft bumper that wrapped around his hip.  He caressed Malfoy’s arse and explored the dark, warm space between his cheeks.   Arousal growing, he licked his finger and ran it down the deep, sweaty crease.

He teased Malfoy's tender pucker until his pet's breathing changed.  “Master,” murmured his sleepy pet.

“Mm-hm,” Harry agreed.  He nuzzled the back of his pet’s neck, nibbling his way to his pet's ear.  “Twisted fuck Master, at your service.”

Malfoy didn't flinch at Harry’s touch as he once would have.  He didn’t hold Harry’s hand to stop his exploration.  Instead, he turned up toward Harry’s nuzzling.  “I am at _your_ service,” he corrected with a smirk, sounding as though he adored the prospect.

Dissatisfied by Malfoy’s ease, Harry targeted the control collar.  He licked Malfoy’s neck along the top of the collar while running a finger along the bottom edge, and reminded him,  “Not _mere_ service.  You are at my absolute command.”

Far from bothered, Malfoy sounded eager.  “Yes, Master.  Command me.”

Harry lay back and ordered, “Suck me,” because he could.

“Yes, please,” Malfoy breathed, levering himself up and scrambling ponderously into position.  Having grown accustomed to his girth, he no longer hesitated to plant his knees wide around his belly.  He did not dither about resting on his elbows as he had when he had first become too heavy to hold himself up for long stretches.  He touched the tip of his tongue to Harry’s slit and looked up for permission.

When Harry was silent, he whisped, “May I?”

“You may,”  Harry allowed, as if he were bestowing a grand privilege.

Down went Malfoy.   So eager.   Hunger and sheer talent fused to provide spectacular sensation.  Ever surprised by spontaneity, ever pleased by precision, Harry was almost entirely drawn in.  Malfoy provoked him like no other.  He brought him to the edge and backed off ever so slightly,  drawing out the  moment for the both of them.  Malfoy uttered obscene, gutteral sounds that spoke of his hunger and desire to take Harry further, deeper, longer.  Malfoy’s greed pushed Harry on and soon there was no going back.  Harry raged with the wild pleasure of orgasm.  Malfoy swallowed and swallowed and still he sucked for the pure joy of it.  

 

After every last jolt of pleasure had been wrenched from him, Harry commanded, “Now you.”  

Malfoy gasped in expectation as he pushed himself to his knees.  Flushed from effort and arousal, his rolling abdomen undulated as he heaved for breath.  He croaked, “Me too?”

Harry couldn't help a small smile.  “Yes, you.  Come here, you great oaf.  Make yourself comfortable.  Here, lean back.  Take yourself in hand.  There you go.  Faster.   No, no.   I can’t see past  your flab.  Suck it in and press it up  out of my way.  Yes, like that.  Tell me how you feel.”

“It’s…  good,” Malfoy managed.

“More.  Tell me about your cock.  How does it feel when you hold it?”

Malfoy leered, clearly enjoying the game.  “It’s hot... thick... throbbing.”  After swiping precum over his head, he added, “And slick, so slick.”

“Passable.  Now play with your flab; tell me about that,” Harry demanded.

Without hesitation, Malfoy splayed his hand over his belly and grabbed a wide roll of fat.  Rolling his fat, he sped the rhythm on his cock as he described, “Warm and soft and stretchy and… strange…  but…  nice…”

Malfoy was fast on his way to fulfillment.  Harry couldn't bear it.  

“Not nice enough,”  Harry sneered.  He slapped Malfoy's hand and directed, “Let go and play with your breast.  I’ll move your flab out of my view.”

“Yes... please... sir,” Malfoy affirmed.  He cupped his moob, started twiddling his nipple and moaned.

“Merlin, you’re obese.”  Annoyed at Malfoy’s newfound pleasure in his excess flesh, Harry mercilessly smashed the squashy bottom of Malfoy’s paunch, stretching the skin and leaning into his abdomen.  He dug his nails in and sneered, “Does it still feel _nice_?”

To Harry’s dismay, Malfoy loved it.  “Yes!  Master!” he shouted, arching into Harry’s hand.  He pulled harder, twisted, and came with a deep gasping groan.

Well.

The whole thing had been brilliant.   

But Harry wasn’t satisfied.  Not at all.  Rather, he was furious.  “Pitiful!” he snapped, and slapped Malfoy’s flabby arse hard enough to leave a bright red hand print.  “Lie here in your sloth while I shower off your filth,” he ordered.

In his shower, Harry brooded over this development.  Malfoy could not forget his humiliation, for Merlin's sake!  The slave's torment made for the Master's glee.  The slave _must_ be miserable.  It was time to scrape away another layer of Malfoy’s dignity and Harry knew just the thing.

A very anxious Malfoy kneeled in wait for him.  Harry dressed, ignoring his slave.  He was walking out of the room when Malfoy made a pitiful noise.  Whirling around, he snapped, “What!”

Malfoy tumbled to the ground and prostrated himself before asking, “Please, Master.  What have I done?”

Harry heaved a sigh and feigned remorse.  “I’m sorry.”  He lied.  “It’s nothing you have done.  I have been holding back on one of the Ministry’s decrees.  I cannot hold back any longer without incurring consequences.”

“C-c-consequences?” stuttered a wide eyed pet.

Harry snorted.  “You've never been stupid.  Think back, _Malfoy_.”  

Malfoy didn't have any idea what he might have done wrong.  His Master kept glaring, making him too nervous to think.   _Think back, Malfoy._  It took a minute, but it came to him.  “Months ago… you said they took my name.”

“Yes.”  Harry walked away.   “Join me for lunch when you are dressed.”

\---

 

For the first time in a long while, Malfoy had absolutely no appetite at lunch.  He tried to eat, but found the food tasteless.   He listened mutely as his Master told him that, starting tomorrow, his compliance collar would cut off his breathing every time he was addressed by proper name.  

“I haven't been complying.  It is the law, technically speaking...”  Master expressed sympathy for this fabricated circumstance.  “I haven't implemented it because I thought it was a bit... too much.”

“Very considerate of you, Master.  But let’s be honest, shall we?  I’m not -- I _can’t_ be Draco Malfoy anymore, can I Sir?  Just as this” -- he gestured roundly over his girth -- “has nothing to do with kindness or good nutrition.”

Master gave a half-shrug and nod in acknowledgement.  He would not shrink from their reality.  Drawing on distant memories of having once been reduced to “boy”, he articulated the indignity he was imposing, “It just seems like a soul should have a name in this world.”

“Then _NAME_ me!” spit out the furious fallen prince, triggering a choking pain from his collar.  Tears in his eyes, he gasped,  “Don’t normal people name their regular pets?”

 

 ****“Can’t,” lied Master baldly.  “Rules.”

The Pet’s breath hitched and all the fight went out of him.  He hung his head silently.

Harry sat, soaking in his slave's hopelessness.  "It is what it is," he offered empty words of solace.  He turned his attention to his daily post.  He drank tea and gloated silently as his unnamed slave hyperventilated, then sobbed.

Eventually, long after the sobbing had dried up, the slave's stomach began to complain.  Harry put his correspondence aside.  "Poor you," he told the slave-formerly-known-as-Malfoy.  "Are you hungry?”

“Don’t start,” the slave muttered.  Then, with a more appeasing tone, “Please.  Just not today.”

“Start what?” Master chuckled.  “It’s nearly 2 o’clock.  I was simply offering a late lunch, or early tea.”

A grand, echoing rumble reverberated from beneath the slave's side of the table.

The slave flushed.  Feigning a casual tone,  he amended, “Yes, please.  Perhaps a spot of tea, then?”

“If you'd like,” the Master gloated.  “Why don’t you have a wash while I call Dobby?”

“Yes, Master.”

He excused himself and tried to make a graceful exit.  It was a futile effort.  His belly bumped the table and, in an effort to back away, he nearly knocked his chair over. He tugged at the hem of his too-short toga and tried not to waddle.   He thanked Merlin that his Master neither said nor did anything to make it worse.  He retreated to the nearest loo, acutely aware of the view his Master had of his rubbing thighs and wobbling arse.  

The newly nameless slave knew he shouldn't let it bother him, but this new degradation had knocked him off balance again.  He didn't feel like himself anymore.  He certainly didn't look like himself.  The bathroom mirrors showed him the brutal bulging truth, which was even harsher when confirmed by the Muggle scale his Master had _so generously_ supplied in every en suite and loo.  

...337 pounds...

He splashed water on his face and looked at the nameless round stranger in the mirror.   He had no words.  He remembered a time when he had sharp words for every situation.   He was no longer that person.

Dry.  Straighten hair.  Straighten clothes.  Still no words.

His hungry stomach spoke up.  

Oh, good.  At least someone can speak.

Silently, the fat nameless slave headed to his Master's dining table.

Master was poking a sleek black rectangle with his index finger.  As the slave carefully lowered himself to an alarmingly fragile chair, Master looked up and told him, “If you really want a name, I think I may have found a few options.  Would you like to be ‘Chou-chou’, ‘Schatz’, ‘Tesoro’, or ‘Preferido’?”

He huffed in amusement despite himself.  “Would I like to be ‘pet’, ‘pet’, ‘pet’ or ‘favorite’?”

Master smiled.  “I was looking for pet in all four languages, but Spanish doesn’t translate well.  Can I call you ‘Chou-chou’?”

He gave Master a look.  Nobody could take his death glare away.

“‘Schatz’, ‘Tesoro’, ‘Preferido’?”

“Seriously?  You have to call me ‘Pet’?”

Master looked bleak.  Hesitating, he answered, “Or ‘Slave’.  Supposedly there is some sort of sensor in your collar.  I finagled time for the transition, but tomorrow...”

He closed his eyes and breathed.  The world had changed.  It was a matter of making the best life possible in this world.  “Does that rectangle thing hold other languages?”

Master chuckled.  “It’s an iPhone.  And sure.  It has all the languages.  Let’s see...  Dutch would be, um, ‘starvelings’.”

“Sounds like ‘leavings’.”

“Fair enough.  Swedish is ‘kelgris’.”

“Maybe...”

“Icelandic is ‘gaeludyr’.”

“You think I am Gay-loo-dear?”

“Right.  Erm, a lot of languages come up with all sorts of odd letters...  Irish is ‘peatai’ and Welsh is ‘anwes’ but I’m sure I’m slaughtering the pronunciation.  Probably don’t want to offend any native speakers.  Here you go, Latvian is ‘Milulis’.  That’s a little like Malfoy.”

He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Right-o.  We have a whole world of languages to go.  Turkish is ‘hayvan’.  That’s sort of normal.”

“Normal?”

“Hey!  Hungarian for pet is ‘dedelgetett haziallat.’  Comparatively, ‘hayvan’ is pretty normal.”

“Relatively,” he acceded.

“Heh.  Galician for pet is ‘mascota’.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn't think so.  Just thought it was funny.”

“Let’s see how funny it is when someone renames you ‘Mascot’.”

“Point.  But I’m running out of languages I can read.  OK.  Here you go.  Latin for pet is ‘cicaro’.  That’s not bad.”

“Not great,” he muttered.

“Not great, no.  But I’m out of languages I can read.  Even Greek is coming up with weird letters.  So let’s see what you have to pick from.”  Master tapped his wand to his paper serviette and it transformed into a parchment list that he handed to his Pet.

 ~~

_Chou-chou_

_Schatz_

_Tesoro_

_Preferido_

_lievelings_

_peatai_

_anwes_

_Milulis_

_hayvan_

_dedelgetett haziallat_

_mascota_

_cicaro_

  ~~

He couldn’t help smiling as he looked at the list.  “OK.  So Mascota is a bit funny.  I still don’t want to be a mascot, thank you very much.  It might serve you right if I asked you to call me Dedelgetett Haziallat.”

Master snorted.  “I’d have to have that tattooed on you to remember.  And a name tag for when you were dressed.”

He smirked at that.  “I’ll cross it off the list.  Do you have a quill?”

“Sure,” said Master and handed one he conjured wandlessly.

He refused to be impressed.  “Thank you.”  Then he crossed off rejected names as he went.  “No Chou-chou-the-tiny-pink-poodle.  No Shitz.  No Tesco.  No Preferred Dildo.  No Leavings.  No Pea-tay or An-wes or offending the natives.  That leaves Milulis, Hayvan and Cicaro in the relatively normal category.  What do you think?”

“All good choices.”

“It’s hard to pick my own name.”

“I could stick with Pet...”

“Cicaro,” he said decisively.

“Latin.  Very traditional.  I like it.”  Master tapped a fork to his shoulder.  “I dub you Cicaro, Pet.  Dobby!” he called and Dobby appeared.  “Hi.  I want you to know that we will be calling our pet Cicaro from now on.  It’s Latin for ‘pet’ just in case anyone from the Ministry asks.”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir.”  Dobby turned to Cicaro and bowed.  “Good welcome to you’s, Cicaro.  You’s has a very nice new name.”

“Thank--” Cicaro began, but Dobby was gone.  “Thank you, Master.  It’s...”

“You’re welcome.  It’s important to be more than a noun.  And Dobby is right.  Cicaro is a good strong name.  It fits you.”

“Thanks,” Cicaro said in a way that was almost shy.

 

 


	3. ROUND THREE --  Psyche

Master pointed to a line in the ledger and asked, “What’s this last transfer of 15,000 Galleons?” Sitting behind his elegant mahogany desk and wearing stylish grey robes, Master Potter looked every inch the Lord of his Manor.

Cicaro sat on a small wooden chair opposite, squeezed into a tan toga that was much too small for him. Dobby had announced lunch was ready nearly an hour ago and Master had been damnably thorough since. While he was pleased to finally see his Master become proficient in discussing estate management, Cicaro was finding it hard to concentrate on anything except his overdue meal.

“15,000?” he asked weakly. The corpulent accountant – former Malfoy, sometimes slave, sometimes pet – ran a chubby index finger down a column of numbers that seemed to swim on the monthly summary he had prepared. His mouth had been watering and stomach rumbling with increasing frequency since lunch was announced. “It’s, ah... here. That is the quarterly stipend from WWW UK that you directed be reinvested in the WWW North America subsidiary.”

“That’s right,” agreed the Master. “The subsidiary expansion had entirely slipped my mind. Thank you.”

Master set aside the monthly report.  Finally.  Cicaro’s stomach rumbled again in hopeful anticipation.  But instead of moving on to lunch, Master appeared to settle in for a chat. “I’m satisfied with your attentions to my financial interests, Cicaro.  I’ll continue to have the goblins verify your work, but so far they have judged you adequate to the task.”

Cicaro felt a brief rush of pleasure at the compliment, and then cringed at how overly eager to please he had become. To his utter shame, Master saw his expression and properly interpreted it. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, my Pet. You should be proud to excel at your role, even if it is that of slave.”

Cicaro willed himself not to wince.  Circumstances may have erased his birth name, but they could not take away a lifetime's training in maintaining his dignity.  Shite.  Training or no, they could strip away his dignity.  Still, he could mask his emotions.

Master opened the small ledger in which he tracked Cicaro’s performance. “Let’s see… This month you have completed each of your assigned tasks and given nearly perfect compliance.  We’ll not mention the small gaffe in the kitchen, shall we?  I believe you have earned two… no, let’s say three rewards for the month.  What say you?”

“Three?” Cicaro was delighted, but couldn’t think past his gnawing hunger. He pressed deeply into the side of his stomach and furrowed his brow in concentration. “Thank you, Master. You are more than generous.  May I make my requests after lunch?”

The Master smiled grimly as he pretended to consider. Knowing his Pet would only have decided on two requests in advance, he had offered the third reward precisely to make him choose between his overdue meal and the rare extra privilege.  “Certainly, Pet."  Master managed to sound faintly regretful as he continued,  "Of course, your request to delay this discussion must count as your first reward. It does seem a shame. Are you sure you want to squander a hard-earned reward on such a small favor?”

Cicaro flashed red with a moment of angry desperation before that feeling was replaced by resignation.  He was far too hungry to think properly.  But even in his current state, he knew all too well that arguing over an unfair Hobson’s Choice such as this would trigger a full-body pins-and-needles consequence from his Compliance Collar and the loss of all three rewards.  Of course he wanted both lunch and a third reward, but he was too lightheaded to think.  Several regrettable requests for rewards had taught him that he must be careful what he wished for.  Sighing, he replied, “Lunch does not appear to be a small favor at this moment.  Could we please reconvene our discussion after we eat?”

Master looked entirely too pleased.  “Absolutely.  Lunch it is.”  He clapped his hands together in anticipation, then bounded out from behind his desk.  Cicaro heaved himself up and tugged expertly on the bottom of his toga to pull the skimpy fabric low enough for some small bit of modesty.

Cicaro was constantly growing out of his clothes.  A few months ago, he had made the mistake of complaining that his tight Muggle clothes had been ridiculously uncomfortable.  Since then, he’d been dressed in togas made out of tea towels just like those the Malfoy House Elves had once worn.  Admittedly, it took a good amount of transfiguration to enlarge tea towels sufficiently for the task, but Master insisted the irony was well worth the effort.  When new and well-fitted, the togas were not as uncomfortable as his Muggle wardrobe, but his girth had constantly pulled the meager skirt up from under the belt and left him indecently exposed.  He had learned not to squirm while seated, as that only worsened the problem, but he still tried hard to reclaim his dignity every time he stood up.   Now that he had outgrown them, his togas were becoming positively indecent.

Master held the door and gestured for Cicaro to walk ahead. He seemed to like doing small things for his pet, but Cicaro wished he wouldn’t. Master’s flagrant disregard of their roles often led to consequences from Cicaro's Control Collar.   This possibility discomfited Cicaro so horribly that he ducked and stammered, “M-mast-ter is t-t-too k-k-k, t-too k-k-kind.”  He lumbered awkwardly past, sandals flip-flopping and feeling especially oafish as he brushed past his lean, elegant lord.  He’d long since lost his former grace.  Just now, he was too hungry to care. Making no effort to disguise his oddly wide and wobbly gate, he waddled ahead and tugged his toga every few steps.

Master caught up and took his arm, as if to escort him.  “Walk with me,” Master said, more of an order than an invitation.  Cicaro grit his teeth and did his very best to keep up with Master’s brisk pace.  He didn’t know which was worse -- practically running, or the fact that Master’s interactions were so random.  Sometimes, he thought it might be easier to always be treated cruely than to be treated with such radically different attentions and expectations.  Still, he was obliging and did his best to keep pace.  The hall echoed with his heavy, sort of jiggly, breathing as it turned to full-out panting.

As they hurried past a window overlooking the east garden path, Master spoke.  “Look at those runty yellow roses, will you?  You must know about roses.  What do you do you think could be wrong with them?”

Cicaro strained to find breath to reply.  “I recall… a fert-ilizer potion… that… may be of… great help. … Master.”

“Mmm,” Master seemed to consider, then chided, “Do keep up.”

Cicaro couldn’t help making a distressed little gasp as they rounded the last corner.  He couldn’t be sure, because his ears were filled with his own heartbeat and laboured breathing, but he thought Master actually giggled.

At least there would be food…

His composure broke at the sight of lunch.  After the long delay, Cicaro could barely follow protocol.  He sat down too quickly after his Master, asked permission without hesitation and swallowed his first spoonful of cream of potato soup a bare millisecond after Master touched his own spoon.  He dug into his meal with barely veiled desperation, inhaling two bowls of soup, a basket of bread slathered with butter, a pile of thick roast beef sandwiches, a glass of milk, and most of a bowl of potato salad before his hunger was even partially sated.

When, at last, he did look up, his Master appraised him with an amused smile. “Is lunch to your liking?” he asked unnecessarily.

Heat crept up Cicaro's neck to his cheeks.  He nodded and tried to reduce his eating speed as he enjoyed a final roast beef sandwich, then a slice of chocolate cake with rocky road ice cream, and then a second pudding, and then a third.   By the time he was scraping up the last of his third pudding, the Pet’s distended stomach pulled the folded fabric of his tea towel tight. He sat back in satisfaction and exclaimed, “Merlin, that was good.”

The Master had long since finished his much more modest lunch of salmon and salad. He took a delicate sip of tea and smiled blandly. “Yes,” he agreed. Then he made a show of patting his own flat abs and added. “I can’t recall ever having been so well fed.  Isn’t it glorious?”

Cicaro wanted to laugh, but his snort turned into a sob.  He felt his complexion go blotchy with heat and shame.  He would not break down and cry.

Master reached across the table to pat his chubby hand.  “Anyone would pack on a few pounds with Dobby cooking for them every day.  Poor dear Pet.  You seem to have a little chocolate just there.  Here.  Let me get it for you." 

Cicaro allowed Master to dab the chocolate off of his chin with his napkin.  He closed his eyes, but that did not stop the tears from streaming down his face.

“Here now, no tears,” Master said bracingly. “You must admit one thing, at least.”

Cicaro looked up questioningly.

Master grinned mischievously and said, “You have to agree that the sex is spectacular, don’t you?”

Cicaro couldn’t help the small smile that flickered across his face. “Yes, Master,” he agreed – because he was forced to, and because, really, it was.

“There now,” said Master indulgently, as if some great problem had been solved.  Cicaro watched his Master attend to his Muggle communication box for several minutes before he was addressed again.  “So. It would appear that it is time to discuss your end of month performance rewards.”

“Ye-,” Cicaro cleared his throat and straightened to attention.  His change in posture caused his jam-packed stomach to throb in pain.  He unconsciously moved his hands to ease the pain.  “Yes, Master.”

Master glanced down and stared steadily at Cicaro’s hand running comforting circles on his throbbing stomach.  He was uncomfortable with the scrutiny and stopped his hand to rest protectively atop his pregnant contours.  Master’s eyes stayed glued to Cicaro’s stomach as he asked, “Have you decided upon your requests?”

“Erm,” Cicaro tried to tug his toga down, but froze when Master softly scolded, “Don’t.”

“Right.” Cicaro did not to know what to do with his hands. He placed them on his thighs, then clasped them over his stomach very briefly before heaving himself to sit upright and placing his folded hands on the table. 

Master finally looked Cicaro in the eyes again.  With laughter in his eyes, he prompted, “Decision?”

Cicaro looked down at his hands and muttered, “Decision.”  Looking up, he tried valiantly for dignity.  “Yes, well, I had hoped for a … a change in… erm… clothes style.”

Master laughed. “Poor Cicaro. Do you have a fashion dilemma?”  Then, more seriously, “I’d like to help you out, but I’m not sure there is much I can do. You know the Ministry does not permit slaves to wear wizarding garments.  And you expressed clear dissatisfaction with Muggle clothes.  I’m not sure what additional options are available.”

“I remember what I said.”  His tantrum was more than a bit embarrassing in retrospect.  “But perhaps I was too hasty.  Even Muggles must have something… more than the small t-shirts and shorts I wore before my current… uniform.  I would like Muggle clothing, so long as it provides, er, more generous coverage and comfort, with a bit of stretch in them?”

“Fair enough,” said Master.  “What is your second request?”

Cicaro bit his lip.  He was more anxious about this second request.  He didn’t know whether it was a permissible request and was certain he would not enjoy the experience, but could think of no other option to guarantee well-fitted clothing.  Collecting himself, he reeled off, “I’d like permission to go shopping with whomever buys my new clothes, please.”

Master raised an eyebrow.  “Really?  I thought you had sworn off public excursions after your one visit to the village.”

“Yes.  Well,” hedged Cicaro.  “Needs must.  I’d rather my clothing fit... erm, with dignity.”

“That’s sensible…” Master mused . “Alright.  More generous, stretchy clothes.  And you may go shopping for them so they are a better fit.  I’ll have to put some thought into logistics, but both requests sound reasonable.” 

“Thank you, Master.”  Cicaro exhaled in relief, which let his belly to jiggle that much further out onto his lap, but he was too wrung out to mind.  He needed a nap.  “May I be excused?”

His Master considered him sternly for a moment, but agreed.  “Yes.  You may be excused.”

Cicaro hoisted himself up with a grunt and waddled out of the room heavier than he had been on the way in.  He could feel the heat of his Master’s gaze watch him as he left.  Between the stress of interacting with his Master and the warmth and weight of his digesting lunch, Cicaro felt ready to collapse.  Too tired to even think of waddling all the way up to his room, he went to his favorite lounge in the nearby conservatory and fell asleep immediately.


	4. ROUND FOUR -- You Can Dress a Man Up...

The next day was Sunday.

Master woke with the birds, as he usually did, and wooed his pet awake with tender caresses and softly spoken invitations.  The pair spent a splendid morning taking full advantage of Master’s enormous bed, circular bath, and multi-headed shower. Well before 10 they were both fulfilled, content and showered.  Harry – Master -- lounged in his bathrobe reviewing a file he’d just received from the Ministry.  Draco – now Cicaro -- sat naked at Master’s feet.

As his Master read his file, Cicaro rested his head on his Master’s knee and affectionately wrapped an arm around Master’s calf.  His gaze cast downward out of perpetual habit and his view was filled with wave after wave of his own doughy flesh.  First, he saw crescents of his chubby cheeks, then the dusting of blonde hair on his moobs, capped by nipples that still throbbed from Master’s attentions.  Mostly there was his belly, broad and round and spreading out so far that he could barely see his chubby knees beyond it.  He rested his free hand atop the behemoth and rubbed his thumb on it absently.

He wasn’t resentful of his submissive position or lack of entertainment.  Quite the opposite, he was grateful Master had been so thoughtful as to permit him to sit rather than kneel.  Kneeling had become more difficult for Cicaro as his legs grew meatier and he carried more and more weight.  Just two days before, his legs had gone entirely numb from kneeling and he had tripped on his sleeping feet.  Master was under no obligation to allow adjustments to his slave’s required posture, so the fact that he had purposely instructed Cicaro to sit instead of kneel struck him as a genuinely caring gesture.  The carpet was soft and Cicaro’s personal insulation kept him quite warm enough with or without clothes.  He smiled and turned to kiss Master’s knee, content to think on all the lovely sex they’d just had.  He had only to flex a muscle here or there to feel its lingering touch.  There were times, like this morning, when his time with Master was so intimate that Cicaro felt almost as though they were lovers.  He liked to float on moments like these for as long as possible.

Eventually, the quiet was broken when the house elves appeared to enlarge their little café table and set out an outrageous brunch.  Draco followed the activity with his eyes and inhaled adoringly.  The delicious aromas triggered his stomach to grumble and mouth to water in anticipation, but he didn’t dare move until given permission.  He could hear his Master’s stomach rumbling, too, so he knew he wouldn’t have long to wait.

Indeed, it was a very few minutes later when Master set his work aside and stood.  “Mmm, breakfast,” murmured Master.  He reached down to offer Cicaro a hand up.  “Ready, luv?”

Nodding happily, Cicaro struggled to get his feet under himself and press up so that Master wouldn’t have to work too hard to help hoist him up.  He couldn’t help his foolish smile at being called ‘luv’.  Master used it rarely, but Cicaro liked it much better than any pet name.

Master accioed the soft green oversized bathrobe he reserved for special times like these and helped Cicaro into it.  It was the one piece of clothing Cicaro actually liked and he felt pampered as Master gently folded each side of the robe around Cicaro’s generous girth.  Not losing contact for one moment, Master reached around to tie the belt, glided his hands up the slope of Cicaro’s front and captured his face for a kiss.  Still beaming, Cicaro kissed back with all the passion of a lover.

When they broke the kiss, Master squeezed a playful grab of Cicaro’s bum and gave permission with an egalitarian-sounding, “Let’s eat.”

Cicaro hesitated, watching his Master sit and begin dishing out his meal.  He wanted to dive in to the mouthwatering meal, too, but wasn’t sure.  He might want to restrict himself if they were going shopping this afternoon.  Lately he’d tended to overstuff himself until he was absolutely distended and needed a few quiet hours to digest and recover.  He would want to be careful if Master was going to take him shopping today.

“What’s the problem, my Pet?”

Cicaro pinked in anxiety.  “I beg your pardon, Master.  If I may, I was simply wondering what your plans are for this afternoon.”

“Ah.  I see.  Well, if you are wondering whether we are going shopping this afternoon, I have to admit that I am undecided about the logistics of our trip.  Where to go? How to go about it?  I’ve started a list,” he produced a note pad and the shiny black rectangle from which he had derived Cicaro’s name.  “But I’m still working on it.  You may as well enjoy your meal.”  Master reinforced his message by serving himself generous portions from two of the platters.

Cicaro relaxed and murmured a thank you as he took his place at the table.  As much as he was looking forward to his shopping trip, Sunday Brunch was his favorite meal of the week and today's spread looked and smelled particularly enticing.  He’d hated the idea of depriving himself.  With Master's encouragement, he let himself go whole hog.

The kitchen elves had truly outdone themselves, as they did every Sunday. There were generous, steaming platters of Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon & chives, smoked haddock & saffron kedgeree, cheesy french toast with ham & grilled vine tomatoes, soft-boiled duck eggs with bacon & asparagus soldiers.  Not to mention, there were plates of sausage, toast, cinnamon pecan sticky buns, cut fruit and cheese.

Cicaro tried everything on offer and found each dish was better than the last.  He paced himself through moderate first portions of everything, and then took larger second portions of almost everything and even larger thirds of his favourites.  He felt entirely stuffed after his thirds and stopped to sip a cup of tea.  Cicaro was content to watch his Master fiddle with his shiny information box and work on his list.  He’d eaten far more than enough and had no intention of eating any more.   But then, waiting and aimless, he did take one more helping of cinnamon buns and French toast because they were ridiculously good and he simply couldn’t resist.  Ten minutes later, he took another plate of sausage and toast.   By the time most of the platters were empty he really didn’t like to think how they had been polished clean.

He only stopped when he was so stuffed and swollen he couldn't manage to reach for more.  He wasn’t bothered by being anchored down, mind you.  Floating along on the foggy afterglow of his splurge, he didn't care to move a muscle.

Cicaro blinked in surprise when Master ripped his list off of the pad and announced, “I’ve worked out my plan.  We can go shopping this afternoon after all.”

Cicaro’s slothful brain strained to reengage.  Shopping?  Right now?  The enticement of comfortable, well-fitted clothes barely cut through his lethargy.  He tried to sit up, only to have his overstuffed stomach block his lungs and ribs and threaten to dislodge the top layer of his not-yet-settled lunch.  He felt far too stupid and heavy to budge.  Looking down, he saw his  behemoth belly was decidedly more prominent now that it was poppingly full of brunch.  It bulged out from the gaping folds of his robe and he couldn't imagine squeezing into one of his ridiculously tiny kitchen towel tunics.  “I look a fright,” he said in disgust.  “What will the shopkeepers think?”

“No worries, Pet," Master said assuringly.  He waved his list "I’ve thought of everything.  You just sit tight and I'll take care of you.  Rest for a minute while I fetch a few items.”

Cicaro had a niggling feeling of dread, but didn't want to think that his gentle almost-lover was up to one of his games.  Sliding back into his food coma, Cicaro could only hope Master really would take good care of him.

He startled awake when Master plunked a bundle of clothes on the table and said, “Here you are.  I thought you’d rather not go shopping in tea towels.”  There was a pink XXXL Bristol Uni sweatshirt, lavender sweatpants with “Bristol Hottie” stamped across the bum, and purple trainers.

Cicaro examined the strange clothes and looked back up at his Master in mute confusion.

Master chuckled.  “Oh, OK.  I’ll help.” He hauled Cicaro out of his seat, sending Cicaro’s head and stomach spinning.  

Cicaro held onto the table for balance.   Swallowing down his nausea, he stood straight and pressed a hand to his lower back, which had the unfortunate effect of thrusting his food bulge forward so that he looked as if he must be pregnant.  His bathrobe barely stayed tied.

“There you go,” Master said, appraising his tottering slave appreciatively. “You just stand there and I’ll have you taken care of in no time.”  Moving close to his lover, Master pulled Pet’s bathrobe off.  He took care to kiss each nipple and the very top of Pet's belly before proceeding to dress his slave like he was a small child.

Cicaro was too uncomfortable to care about being treated like an infant.  Still weighed down, it took all his energy to keep from collapsing.  Every movement threatened to burst his overstuffed stomach, but he endured it complacently.  Once Master finished tugging and pulling and prodding, Cicaro thought the sweats were bulky but adequate.  They ‘fit’ in the sense that they covered all of his flesh.  That was not to say they were particularly flattering.  The sweatshirt stretched to cover his fat and food stuffed middle and the colors were horribly feminine and Muggle.

Master conjured a mirror to assure Cicaro he was presentable.  “I look like a girl,” the slave couldn’t help but whinge.

“Pshaw.  Not a girl.  You are all woman,” Master praised enthusiastically.  Cicaro thought he saw a mischievous glint in Master's eyes as he pulled his wand out and instructed, “Here.  Let me...” Master lengthened Cicaro’s hair to a shoulder length bob, curled it at the bottom, and applied a set of cosmetic charms. Standing back to assess, Master declared, “You look lovely.  Truly.”

Cicaro began hyperventilating. There in the mirror was a very fat Muggle woman, apparently too stupid to know not to pair fancy hair and heavy make up with an atrociously ugly exercise outfit.  He worked on not fainting while Master led him to the big boxy Range Rover out in the driveway.  It was only the second time he’d ridden in it and he stumbled climbing in.  He felt pinned in by the seat strap and claustrophobic when Master shut him in.  

Master was certainly chipper, chatting about this and that all the way, but for Cicaro’s overfull stomach, the tight, airless, bumpy ride was unendurable.  He held tight to a handle with one hand and his belly with the other.  As he jostled in quiet suffering, he tried to be grateful that the noise of the road, the radio and Master’s chatter were enough to mask the continuous stream of burps and farts the ride shook out of him.  Of course, the noise did nothing to mask the vile stench, which in turn exacerbated the nausea.  Cicaro had no idea how to address the situation and the fog amassed until Master was bothered enough to open the window.  

Cicaro was miserable.  Not only was he uncomfortable and disgusted, the whole wretched scenario deeply offended every jot of propriety that had once been so deeply ingrained in him.

By the time Master parked in front of store, Cicero was too woozy to think straight.  Luckily, when Master came round to release him, he played the Muggle gentleman and offered his arm.  That was actually helpful because Cicaro's control collar kicked in to compel him to move.  He lumbered clumsily down from the Range Rover and looked up at the sign on the store.  Pink Blush?  Cicaro had no idea what that might mean.

Master placed a slight glamour on Cicaro and escorted him into the store, where a clerk was ready and waiting for them.  It was readily apparent that this store sold Muggle women's maternity clothes.  Cicaro’s already swamped stomach began to sink further down.  

Master introduced himself as Harry and Cicaro as his wife Dora.  He explained to the sales clerk, a Mrs. Bridges, that his dearest Dora was feeling out of sorts because she’d put off shopping for too long and now none of her clothes fit.  Master said he wanted to cheer up Dora with a whole new wardrobe.  "Let's give her the full treatment, from stem to stern."

As a cold sweat rolled over him, Cicaro could do no more than plaster on a feeble smile.

Mrs. Bridges was a kind woman, who patted her own generous hips as she clucked consolingly about how she understood completely. She housed ‘Miss Dora’ in a brightly lit changing room with some insulting Muggle contraption called a three-way mirror.  She then bustled back and forth parading in a seemingly endless supply of tops and bottoms and dresses and accessories and underthings to try on.  Draco stepped into and out of bottoms, he pulled tops on and off, he fumbled with buttons, tugged up zippers.  He turned this way and that to assess the fit of the strange pieces he was given to wear.  It was frightening.  The fabrics were oddly flimsy, stretchy, striped, spotted or floral by turns.  The colors were garish.  The styles were completely alien.  Just about the only thing that didn’t bother him were some of the flowing skirts, because they, at least, reminded him vaguely of robes.

As awful as they were on their hangers, the Muggle maternity clothes looked far worse spread out over Cicaro.  He cringed to see the full effect in the dizzying view of the 3-way mirror.  It was like a bad dream, and Draco couldn’t understand how it had happened.  He wracked his brain to think how he could have presented his wardrobe request to his Master  in a way that would have avoided this madness.  Technically, Master was fulfilling his wishes to the letter: generous fit and comfort.  And, still, it was worse than any  nightmare he could have dreamt, because he could never have imagined these particulars.  

In truth, the only thing keeping him from collapsing into tears was knowing his control collar would punish him if he didn’t cooperate.

After an hour of trying on all sorts of horrible outfits, even cheery Mrs. Bridges was discouraged that nothing looked quite right.  The sad truth was that, glamour and moobs and sort-of-pregnant-belly notwithstanding, pretty Miss Dora with her beautiful platinum curls and pink lip gloss didn't quite fill out maternity clothes like a true mom-to-be.  With Master's encouragement, Mrs. Bridges fit out Miss Dora with a whole set of maternity undergarments, including push-up bras and shapewear.  Cicaro tried to decline, but Master insisted they were just the thing.  He even went into the dressing room to help dear Dora shimmy and shake his rolls of flab into the medieval elastic contrivances.  They pinched and pulled as Master worked them on.  He got sweaty and winded from the effort and was left squeezed tighter than a permanent state of Apparation.  

It was a good thing no one had forced him into one of these things earlier, because it surely would have made him sick.

Irksomely, the torture garments did an admirable job of molding Cicaro to fit the part of dear pregnant 'Dora'.  They nipped his waist in around the back. His moobs were pushed up and together to give him cleavage. And, in the name of maternity support, his amorphous gut was lifted and rounded into a fair approximation of the mother of twins in her eighth month.  Cicaro would never had  admitted it, but his back did feel better for the torture.  And some of the monstrous maternity clothes finally fit properly.

Soon, he had an entire wardrobe of dreadful clothes.  They were alternately stretchy, form fitting, and flowing; gauzy, frilly and fuzzy.  Most of the tops had deep v-necks that displayed his pushed-up breasts.  The bottoms showed off his juicy round bum and gave ample comfort to his ever-expanding gut. Cicaro was transformed from a lumpy fat man to the very picture of a plus sized mum-to-be.

Mrs. Bridges insisted that, after all her efforts, Dora simply _must_ leave the shop looking pretty and feeling happy.  So she dressed Dora in the mandatory ‘foundation layer’, topped by a pair of black bell-bottom trousers with a stretchy panel that hugged his outsized midsection, a sexy black shape tank, and a long, gauzy floral tunic with ruffles at the wrists and the v-neck. She tsked when Dora came to the checkout desk with her scoop necked tunic pulled up so the scoop fell down his back. She explained to Dora in patient tones that the whole point of the ruffled scoop neck was to display her cleavage to its best advantage.  With complete disregard for Dora’s dignity, Mrs. Bridges reached into and under the clothes to readjust the bra and tops to display his sexy breasts. “That's the ticket, luv. Give ‘em something to focus on up here,” she said with a wink, “to distract from all what’s going on down there.”

By this time, Cicaro was too tired and hungry to want to smack the condescending, overly intimate cow.  Hungry??  Merlin save him.  How could he possibly be hungry when brunch still sat in his stomach like a rock?  Absurdly, out from around the solid mass of still-digesting brunch, his stomach was growling piteously.   And burning with heartburn...

He focused on the happy thought that Master would soon take him home and tried to ignore the trifling details.

After check out, however, Master steered him to the ladies shoe store next door.  Shoes shouldn't be a problem, as such, except Master insisted on dainty high heeled and platform models that were impossible to walk in... And his new undergarments forced his bulk into a baby-shaped lump that made it harder to bend over and forced burps out of him when he did...  And he was really starting to get hungry again.  But, all in all, shoe shopping was a breeze.

After shoes, Master said he would treat Cicaro to a manicure as an extra reward.  Cicaro had been given manicures by house elves in his former life, so he didn’t hate the idea at first.  Pampering was pampering, after all, so Cicaro tried to put on a happy face.  He knew it was a mistake the second he stumbled into the shop. It was an impossibly small space, staffed by tiny women who couldn't have weighed more than 90 pounds apiece and made him feel all the larger, clumsier.  Cicaro had never been intimidated by tiny unassuming muggle women, but these tiny perfect dolls darted around like hummingbirds.  They spoke faster than a speeding FireBolt in an entirely unintelligible accent – Cockney? -- probably not.  He had no idea.  He couldn’t understand a word.  What he could understand were their looks.  They shared looks between themselves and they gave him sideways glances that said 'have you ever seen such an unfortunate cow?'  They looked from Cicaro to his patiently waiting master in ways that said, "What on earth is such a sharp looking bloke doing with her?’  And when they looked directly at him, there was a terrible mix of pity and kindness that he would never have tolerated if he had any free will whatsoever.

He was assigned to an especially kind little doll whose name tag read ‘Kimmie.’  He decided it would be best to close his eyes and focus on the pleasant sensations.  It worked, and for a while he was able to relax into the hand massage.  However, when his hands were being dried, he looked up and was shocked to see a gorgeous leggy blonde flirting outrageously with his Master.  Worse yet, Master was flirting right back with the slut.  Cicaro felt jealous and betrayed and powerless.  He couldn't say a word.  He blinked away tears.  He absolutely would not cry.  He would not justify Kimmie’s pitying expression, or the way she was patting his hand.  He tore his eyes away from his Master, gave Kimmie a pained smile and forced himself to perform his old, forgotten Occlumency exercises.

For the next half hour, he channeled terrifying memories of his Aunt Bellatrix's expectations to muster the willpower to focus on absolutely nothing.

By the time his nails were long magenta talons and Master escorted him back to the Range Rover, Cicaro thought he had borne all he possibly could and was clinging to the expectation of returning Potter Manor.  

As he clambered up and into the Range Rover, Master announced they would be going to Diagon Alley for dinner.  

Cicaro blamed himself.  He should never have allowed himself to hope the trip had come to an end.  If he hadn't allowed himself that small hope, the prospect of being paraded through Diagon Alley in all of his faux pregnant, crossdressing glory might not seem quite so awful.  

When his stomach grumbled demandingly, he felt relief that they were going to eat soon.  That relief, however, quickly burned away from his utter shame that he could be so easily appeased by the mere promise of food.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They aren't quite permanent, but Draco's curly top is thanks to bottomdraco's suggestion, and I think it adds a special touch. Thanks bottomdraco!

**Author's Note:**

> Like a collection of cat toys, I have an outline of further episodes I'm working on and will post at random intervals. If you think of something you'd like to see, let me know and maybe I'll work it it.


End file.
